Green Lit Rooms
by Beringae
Summary: The little details in Hermione's life force her to remember and come to terms with the men in her life. Inspired by The English Patient. [The title should have a dash between 'green' an 'lit,' I know, but won't let me.]
1. The Empty Glass

**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling, Michael Ondaatje, and Anthony Minghella own all of it. **

Ah, I've finally written another one. As you can tell from the disclaimer, I've borrowed almost direct quotes and some plot themes from _The English Patient_, mostly the film, because I love it. So... no one cite me for plagiarism because I admit that I used aspects of the movie, got it?

-

Chapter: The Empty Glass

She knows he will cause trouble the moment she sees him walk through the door. He nearly dances towards the table, terribly dashing in his pristine muggle suit, his gait and demeanor deceptively cheerful. His eyes bore hot into her.

Hermione turns her face away.

"I believe I'm rather late," he announces loudly as he casts a tight smile across the room, interrupting what began as a pleasant meal. The near twenty people in the room—people Hermione admires, loves, and in many cases owes her life to—look up from their conversation upon hearing the commotion.

Draco violently drags the chair across from Hermione away from the table and sits regally. His face is so hard and full of angles that Hermione can hardly watch any part of him. When she finally meets his gaze she sees manic vehemence in his eyes.

"Ah, good," Scrimgeour says, breaking the unexplainable tension in the grand room. "We're all here. A toast, then," the Minister pronounces, raising his glass, "to all those who assisted in the defeat of the Dark Lord five years ago. We have assembled in this great and historic hall annually since our victory, and after five years neither the pain of loss nor the joy of triumph have lessened. Wizardkind owes its gratitude to every one of you. To all." A murmuring chorus of affirmation echoes through Hogwarts' Great Hall.

Draco's eyes never leave Hermione's face. Finally, she spares a glance in his direction, and sees the familiar twitch of his jaw, a near-imperceptible flutter beneath his skin. She wills her eyes to plead with him, to keep him from doing what is ruminating in his otherwise stolid expression.

She loses the battle.

"Ah, _us_," Draco croons, smiling charmingly at those sitting around him. Ron, sitting beside Hermione, furrows his brow. Draco raises his full glass of brandy and downs the whole of it in one swallow before continuing. "Misfits, buggers, muggles, and slags"—this is spat with particular venom towards Hermione—"all of us. Thank Merlin the wizarding population has _us_ at their disposal."

Hermione winces, fighting the urge to cover her face with her hands. Molly Weasley lets out a scandalized, "Mr. Malfoy!"

Playfully, like a joke. "Oops! Terribly sorry, Molly. Mustn't say things like that. Dirty words, _filthy_ words." He smiles horribly, fixed and cold, while his eyes burn into Hermione's.

"Draco, what are you playing at?" asks Ron slowly, watching the other man as if he is a crazed animal. Beneath the table, he places his palm protectively at the small of Hermione's back. She tries not to jump at the touch. Abruptly, Draco stands, his chair bumping against the stone floor. It is only when he stumbles uncharacteristically that Hermione realizes how drunk he is.

"What am I playing at? Oh! I've invented a new dance!" Draco declares loudly, opening his arms widely towards familiar people in the room, all of who stare at him with thinly veiled alarm. This person is so very different from the Draco Malfoy they think they know. "I haven't decided on a name. Who's up for it? Potter? Lovegood?"

"Draco, sit down," commands Harry, his eyes flitting back and forth between Draco and Hermione, whose elbows are nearly supporting her entire weight on the table as she sinks into herself.

To Hermione's horror, Draco begins to hum along to the faint music playing in the background in a disturbingly singsong melody, apparently making up the words on impulse.

"...We'll bathe at Brighton, the fish

we'll frighten when we're in. Your

bathing suit so thin will make the

shellfish grin, fin to fin…

"Very old tune, that one. Those were the words before they were cleaned up." A pause. "Could be a song for you, Mrs. _Weasley_… with your love of _swimming_…"

Here his gaze and tone become so violent that it is all Hermione can do not to collapse from embarrassment and revulsion. She looks up sharply in response to his last mocking comment, her eyes shimmering with loathing. "Draco…" She says, quietly pleading with him. Ron, his lips pressed to a thin line, glances between his wife and the apparently deranged Malfoy, attempting without success to put the pieces together.

Harry, who has finally had enough, rises from his seat just as quickly as Draco had moments before and grasps his friend about the elbow, pulling him in to his chair. He hisses viciously into Draco's ear. "Honestly, Malfoy, you're drunk! Either shut up or go home."

Darkly, Draco picks up his napkin and smooths it nobly on his lap. "Absolutely right, shut up. How very improper." He says this almost to himself, finally taking his eyes off Hermione to brood over his empty brandy glass. "_Lashings _of apologies all around."

Beneath the table, Hermione fiddles with her wedding band, twisting the small stone at its top around and around her finger.

-

Hermione finds Harry in the cloakroom as he is retrieving his jumper.

"Harry…" Her voice is so weak that she thinks he can break it if he moves too quickly. "Harry, I…"

Slowly, Harry walks towards her and encircles her in his arms. "Shhh, 'Mione. It's okay." Hermione allows herself one half-sob, clinging to his collar for a moment. Then she steps back, wiping tears from under her eyes with stiff fingers.

"I don't know w-whether to feel guilty or disgusted," she whispers, staring at the jackets and robes over Harry's shoulder.

Harry pulls her into another brief embrace, rocking slightly. "I'll talk to him. He's upset. I'll make sure he's okay."

"'Mione?"

Hermione starts at the sound of Ron's voice. She gazes at Harry, drinking in his strength, before fishing for a tissue in her pocket and dabbing it across her eyes. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she returns to the revelry.

-

Hermione stands at the bottom of the familiar stairs at Hogwarts' entrance, staring misty-eyed at the lake across the way. The voices and sounds of fond farewells drift away from her ears, leaving her in relative silence.

She feels his eyes on her, burning into the side of her face. She jerks her head around, her gaze zeroing in on his figure tucked darkly behind a cluster of bushes. Her step falters, if for only a moment, before she walks briskly over to his partially concealed form.

"Evening, Mrs. Weasley," he drawls, his voice deceivingly smooth, as she approaches.

"Shut up. What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? Have you completely lost your mind?" she hisses, jabbing him sharply on the shoulder with her forefinger. Despite his inebriation, he does not stumble.

"What's wrong with _me_?" He begins to laugh, the deep rumble Hermione had once loved in him turning to something awful. Suddenly, he quiets, his expression grave and desperate. "I've watched you, you know. At these bloody functions, these parades of nonsense. How can you smile? As if your life wasn't at your fucking _feet_ waiting to be _stomped_ on." His voice is a low, emphatic growl.

"Leave me alone," she says quietly. He tries to hold her, grasp around her waist and pull her to him, his expression unbearably brittle. She almost hits him, but instead tenses and pushes at his chest. "Stop that. _Stop_, Draco."

"I want to touch you. I want what belongs to me. You're _mine_." Slurring slightly, now.

"I am most certainly not." But her voice lacks her usual conviction, for she knows, even now, that it is true. It is true because even as she pushes against his body, a play for release, she wants nothing more than to curl against him and soak his comfort in as she once had.

"You're a frigid bitch," he spits, reading this conflict in her face as if she is a freshly minted page.

Hermione holds his gaze, then, determined and tremulous. Her eyes glaze, prickle, and threaten to spill. But she blinks, and the emotion was gone. Finally, a whisper. "You think you're the only one who feels anything?"

She thrusts his arms away and walks back towards her husband.

-

Later that night, as Hermione is pulling off her stockings and slipping her nightgown over her head:

"I wonder what was up with Malfoy tonight," cautions Ron from his reclining position on the bed, laying the Quidditch catalogue in which he had been engrossed moments before on his lap. "He seemed really unstable."

The hairbrush freezes briefly on Hermione's hair. "I haven't the foggiest."

"It's just odd, you know? He's always so reserved."

Hermione stares at her reflection in the mirror, watching her face grow white and expressionless, a hard mask. "Well, he was drunk, wasn't he? Alcohol can make people act in strange ways." She pushes back the covers of the bed and slides in next to Ron, shivering slightly as the cold sheets skim across her legs. "It's probably best not to think about it. He'll be fine. Embarrassed, but fine."

Ron frowns. "It's not like you to not be worried about someone, especially considering all Malfoy went through in the war."

Hermione turns towards him, smiling even when her lips tremble imperceptibly with the pain of it. "Malfoy's a big boy. He can take care of himself. Besides, Harry said he'd make sure he was all right."

The things she is saying make her feel horrible, as if every part of her has changed. As if _he_ has changed her.

Ron grins at her. "So practical, my love." He reaches out a freckled arm to push her hair, still as long as it had been at Hogwarts, from her shoulder so he can press a reverent kiss to the pale skin. He keeps his hand in her hair, twirling one unraveled curl around his finger. "You have such lovely hair," he says, his eyes changing. He gathers the mass in his hands and fans it out over her shoulders.

Hermione tries to smile, tries to make her voice warm. "No I don't, Ron… it's been the bane of my existence my entire life."

"Well _I_ like it," he declares, playfully petulant. And then, seriously, with a look in his eyes that Hermione both adores and dislikes: "I like _you_, Hermione…"

She turns towards him, smiling faintly, her heart breaking. "I know."

She kisses him, then, her thoughts on another.

-

**A/N: **So I began to write this as a one-shot, but I soon realized that this would be a damn long one-shot, so it turned into multiple-shot. It's not going to have that many chapters, but the upcoming ones will explain further some of the things referenced in this chapter (the swimming reference, for one).

I _adore _the first bit, probably because it comes mostly from _The English Patient_.

If you haven't seen that film, go directly to a Blockbuster or or whatever and rent it.

In the upcoming chapters more will be explained about Hermione and Draco's relationship and how they got to be where they are. You can probably expect the next chapter out pretty quick, as I've got most of it written already. Don't worry, it will get less and less like The English Patient and more like my own thinking. I just found inspiration for the first scene from the movie, and went from there.


	2. The Closet

Chapter: The Closet

-_  
_

_He returned when they needed him most, and she had always taken that as a sign:_

_She found him one day outside Number 12, Grimmauld Place, as she returned from the store with grocery bags in hand. She watched him for a full minute, squinting as if she couldn't recognize him. He was pacing, muttering softly to himself. He didn't see her._

_Abruptly, she threw down the groceries and leveled her wand at him. "Malfoy!"_

_He whirled around at the sound of her voice, obviously shaken. "What?" he responded lamely, before recognition flashed across his face. He looked older, no longer a child. "Granger?"_

"_What the bloody hell are you doing here?" she yelled crassly, her wand still trained on him. "Give me your wand or I swear I'll stupefy you!"_

_Without objection, he tossed his wand towards her. She caught it in one hand, never looking away from him. "Answer my question! What are you doing here?" She knew he couldn't see the house, but it was nevertheless unnerving to see him so close to their headquarters. It had been two years since Draco and Snape had fled and Hogwarts had closed, and the shock of seeing her childhood nemesis was working on her nerves, making her impatient. She fired off a curse towards his feet when he didn't answer immediately._

"_Fuck, Granger!"_

"_Answer the damn question!"_

_He paused, obviously considering how to respond. His expression closed off oddly, as if he was trying to hide something terrible. "I'm tired."_

_"What does that mean?" She was highly tempted to fire another curse his way._

"_I don't want to be a Death Eater anymore. I don't want to serve _him_." He said this with such vehemence that Hermione almost lowered her wand._

_She frowned, weighing her options. She knew Grimmauld Place was empty; Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Order had left to follow a lead that Lupin had picked up from the werewolves. She was alone. She could either stupefy him and drag him inside, tie him up, and wait for help, or tell him to leave immediately with her wand aimed at his back. Being the logical person she was, she decided to try and glean any more information she could from him before acting. "How did you find this place?" she asked sharply._

_Warily, he eyed her, clearly sizing her up, deciding whether she would believe a lie. With a defeated sigh, he spoke. "I overheard you and Potter talking about something called Number 12 Grimmauld Place on the train at the beginning of our sixth year. I thought I might be able to find someone from the Light here," he explained, with an ironic smirk. "I was obviously mistaken." He motioned towards the apparent gap between Number 11 and Number 13. "It doesn't even bloody exist."_

_Hermione kept her face stoic. "You really want to change your allegiance?" _

_He nodded slowly._

"_And you have information we can use?"_

"_Yes. I need some sort of leverage, don't I? Honestly, Granger, I would expect a greater show of intelligence from _you_."_

"_Shut up, you snarky little ferret," she snapped, thinking furiously. "Why do you want to join us? And don't give me that tripe about being tired."_

"_This is the only place I can go outside Voldemort's circle," he said, haltingly and with great reluctance. "I don't have anywhere else."_

_She knew how difficult it must be for him to admit such a weakness, especially to her. "Okay. Why leave Voldemort's ranks, then? Why put yourself at so much danger?"_

_A dark shadow fell over his face. Hermione shivered, shocked by the sudden pain that presented itself so abruptly over his features._

"_He killed my mother." It was a strangled, angry whisper. _

_Hermione tried very hard not to feel sorry for him._

_After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Hermione spoke, briskly and without emotion. "Fine. _Incarcerous_!" Ropes shot out from her wand and bound Malfoy tight, his arms pressed against his sides. At his yell of protest, Hermione rolled her eyes. "What would you have done?"_

_Ignoring his cursing, she grabbed the spare end of the rope and pulled him towards the charmed house._

-

Each day she lives in fear that Ron, her lovely Ron, will put the puzzle pieces together. It isn't as if she doesn't leave clues.

The whispered conversation with Harry in the cloakroom. A tendency to stare in to nothingness for an indeterminate amount of time. Her propensity for weeping for no apparent reason. Unresponsiveness during sex. Malfoy's distressing behavior at dinner.

"_Could be a song for you, Mrs. Weasley… with your love of swimming…"_

She hates him for saying that. He corrupted her sweetest memories with bitterness and anger.

_Draco…_

-

_If there was one thing that damned war had taught her, it was to never give her trust blindly:_

_She bound him to a chair in the kitchen and sat across the room on the table, careful to watch him always, stiffening with each movement he made. _

"_Granger," he said after nearly an hour of silence. His jaw was tight with irritation. "How long 'til anyone gets back?"_

_She ignored him._

"_Well fuck you, too…" He muttered the curse under his breath, and Hermione shot him a glare. _

_At the first sound of footsteps at the entryway Hermione jumped down from the table, wincing slightly as she realized that her bum had fallen unceremoniously asleep. Making a vague threat in Malfoy's direction, she moved as quickly as she could towards the sound of voices. Harry and Ron talked lowly as they removed their coats at the entrance of the house, and Hermione took a moment to collect herself after the familiar flood of relief rendered her temporarily immobile. _

_Every time they left Grimmauld Place, she was continuously afraid they would never return. _

_She hated that war. She _hated _it. War made her fear for her friends' lives whenever they stepped outside. It left worry lines across her forehead, caused Harry's eyes to fade to near gray with exhaustion and an immeasurable burden. War made her tie her fucking classmate to a chair while she watched his wand hand lest he make any movement that could be perceived as threatening._

_Hermione blinked to dispel irrational tears that trembled at the corner of her eyes. They obediently disappeared, and she moved, smiling, towards her friends._

-

Hermione works at the Ministry as part of the Committee on Experimental Charms. This means that she works often and late into the night. She is constantly absorbed in the latest mystery charm. She has little time for life outside the ministry.

She wakes at five thirty every morning and steps out the door half an hour later. She works, taking an hour for lunch and nothing more. She arrives at their flat, exhausted and irritable, at nine o'clock every night save Sunday. On Sunday she does not leave the house, but instead sleeps until eight and remains the rest of the day in her bathrobe reading obscure books that frequently require knowledge of equally obscure anti-curse spells in order to safely access the information they hold.

And yet Ron never complains. Even when he eats dinner alone and comes to bed to a sleeping wife every night, he never complains.

How she wishes she could love him.

She used to adore her work, the constant exploration of it, the quest for knowledge that she may be the first to hold like intangible gems in her hand. She delighted in the possibility of discovery.

But now the memories that assault her upon her entrance into the committee headquarters drive her mad. She hates it there.

How she wishes she could forget him.

-

Sitting at her desk, Hermione stares blankly at the tiny closet door within her office. She remembers the musty smell of that miniscule room. Barely enough room for one person in there, she remembers, but somehow they had managed two, pressed close together, breath puffing on one another's faces, thighs and calves wrapped around hips and wrinkles coats. His head nearly bumping the ceiling. Careful, she had said, pulling his face towards her, don't make a noise. Because it would have given their hiding place away.

Hermione is jerked from her thoughts by Spencer, the _new_ Assistant Director who she despises, and is told abruptly and without ceremony to get to work, so she does.

-

_They finally decided he could stay because Hermione told them what he said about his mother:_

_She was beginning to wish she had kept quiet._

"_Shut your goddamned mouth and leave me the fuck alone," Malfoy spat blandly, for what seemed like the thousandth time, before pushing her out of the door and slamming it in her face. She tried to shove the door open—he couldn't lock it, because it locked from the outside—but he must have been bracing against it with his shoulder. Resigned, Hermione stood outside, her forehead pressed against his door, and spoke into the heavy oak._

"_Malfoy! Quit being such an ass and let me talk to you! It's either me or Ron, and I'm fairly sure that Ron won't be so genial as I am!"_

"_I don't want to talk to anyone." His voice is muffled through the door._

"_We have to understand why you're here! We need to know that you won't murder us in our sleep!" For some reason she was almost crying. She didn't like to think about people her age killing people._

"_You lock me in this fucking room every night and you always have someone watching me, you stupid bitch. Don't be idiotic."_

"_You know what I mean!"_

"_Sod off."_

"_I WON'T!" To her horror, her voice broke, high and thin at the "--on't."_

_The door swung open and because she was leaning against it she almost fell to the floor. She could almost _hear _his sick sneer. "Don't you ever shut up, you crazy bint?"_

_And she'd _had _it._

_So she straightened, brushed herself off, and punched him in the face._

"_What the FUCK, Granger!" He yelled, reeling back and clutching his bleeding lip._

"_Listen, Malfoy." She could see he wasn't, so she raised her smarting fist. "Listen!" He wiped at his lip with his forearm, leaving a streak of red on that pale skin, and stared at her. Incredulously. _

"_You have no _right_," she started, lowly, her voice almost shaking, "to act like the snotty little bastard you always have been. Not here, and not now. Do you know how much Harry is risking keeping you here? For all he knows, Voldemort can track his Death Eaters' locations and we've given away our hideout, because of YOU. But Harry's so kind that when I told him your _bitch_ of a mother is dead I saw pity." Her own profanity shocked her, and she could see the anger leap forward in his face. "Pity for you, who doesn't even deserve it. If what you say is true and you have nowhere else to go but here, you should be kissing his fucking _feet_, not sneering whenever he enters your room. Not refusing to speak to us. So tell me _really _why you're here. Tell me what _really _happened, in more detail. If you don't I swear to God I'll punch you again and curse you senseless." She finally quieted, breathing very hard, glaring an angry tremolo into his face._

_He stared, the blood dripping down his chin. Then, very slowly, enunciating clearly: "Get the fuck out of my room."_

_And she did, and the only reason she did not hex him into oblivion was because she had seen in his face the crack of his resolve, if only for a moment._

_Three days later, after Ron had hit Malfoy's nose with the base of his palm out of sheer frustration at his silence, Hermione walked into that room and found Malfoy sitting on the floor. "Are you ready?" she asked._

_He stared at her, the blossom of bruise on his nose fresher than on his lip, and nodded. She sat across from him and waited._

_ -_

**A/N: **Viola! I hope you enjoyed this. As I said, as the story progresses we'll learn more and more about Hermione and Draco's relationship through flashbacks. More to come!_  
_


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